To Pray
by Monsieur Mimi
Summary: A piece on Jezebel - As he spends time in a church


My 15th fanfiction. ^_^ 

Author's Note: This fanfic is about, obviously, Dr. Jezebel Disraeli (AKA: Kafka's Dr. Allen). I know some parts might be incorrect (I am a Riff fan afterall) but I don't believe Jezebel really talks about religion a lot anyway. This is set before Cassian gets his adult body in God Child 5, and hints slightly at Jezebel's past, but only slightly. I'm really sorry if I've offended anyone who is Christian, I don't think like Jezebel, but this is how I imagine he would think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Count/Earl Cain. I do not own Dr. Jezebel, Cassian or Alexis. They all belong to Kaori Yuki, Hakusensha, Hana to Yume comics etc. This is a piece of fiction written by a fan, and I make no profit. Rated PG-13 for slight gore and some of Jezebel's religious views.

------ **To Pray** ------

There's a smell that lingers around the senses. A smell that cannot be ignored or taken. Some could call it the smell of death. Of decay. The dark red liquid, like a deep, deadly, wine. That beautiful smell of blood.

The church was beautiful, some might say. Cold, aggressively lonely, with such artificial beauty that created no warmth from the stone walls. Coloured lights flickered through stain-glass-windows, portraying smiling faces, biblical poses, and deep artificial colours that almost glittered in the moonlight. They shone light into the church, and the people inside it, casting long, bleak shadows down the cold floors.

The priest lay. Scrawled in a sea of red.

Standing over him, was a tall, striking man. His face held that of a peculiar beauty, struck with madness, and malice, masking over pain. His long, loose tangles of waves, held small droplets of blood, clinging to each strand, but he seemed oblivious, or at least, uncaring to his bloodied clothes, hair and hands. The light from the coloured windows, and the priest's blood, made his glasses flash a deep, dark red.

"W…why?" Choked the priest, laying, a pathetic figure on the floor, a slash from a dagger across his stomach, but carefully cut, so it would only penetrate the skin, and not the precious organs inside. "W…why are you-" He stopped with a sudden choking sound, like a sick dog, as scarlet slipped from his mouth. He looked up again, not continuing, his mouth hanging hideously open and flapping like a fish, looking up at the beautiful man with a look of horror, disbelief and fear.

Jezebel looked at the priest, disgusted. An elegant hand, fell into his waistcoat pocket, and closed in on something warm and metallic. The handle of a surgeon's scalpel. As he lifted it from his pocket, the priest gave another very startled gasp. It sounded like he was trying to pray.

Jezebel kneeled beside the crumbled and bloodied priest, trying to hide his look of contempt and disgust. He adjusted his glasses, so he could see well. And then, so that his beautiful hair fell forward, and hung in the blood, he leaned in towards the priest's ear. His breath tingled down the other man's skin, who yelped, and shivered. It felt like the devil's kiss.

"Because" Jezebel said, slowly, making each word count. "I want to pray"

His tongue licked the skin of the priest's ear. Jezebel plunged the scalpel he was holding right across the foolish priest's neck, killing the man almost instantly, but managing to keep the organs intact. Jezebel had never really cared for autopsies on the neck anyhow, and he wasn't even planning on using the priest for experiments. It just seemed a waste, to destroy good, perfect organs.

He stood, with an extravagant sigh, and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, with which he started to wipe the scalpel. He placed the instrument back into his pocket. He was not entirely sure, what had made him come here. What had brought him to this place where he didn't belong. He was a Godless man, it seemed, and such a place, so disgustingly holy, felt foreign to him. But something had made him come, and he wasn't sure what. Sometimes in his dreams, he heard whispering voices, scratching, praying. So many of the people he had killed to cut and pour the dark red wine of blood, had whispered pleas to God before their hearts slowly stopped beating. What made this person, this greater power, be so superior that he could save them from death? 

Of course, as a child, Jezebel had been taken to church, while he was still with his mother. But he had no comprehension really. He would sit, and pretend to hear meaningless words, in the cold, or the heat, but all he wanted was to be outside, with the animals. The windows were blocks of colour, and obscured his view to the outside world. It was like being in a giant stone cage. That was what he remembered. He didn't remember God. He remembered a cage. Filled with warnings of punishment, of tales of sinners, the droning voice of a man who would not stop talking. The peculiar ritual, which Jezebel had never understood, of taking the bread and drink from the deep-throated man. Submissive kneeling positions, to no one seemingly there. The singing of voices to an old haunting musical instrument.

Church had stopped when he had gone to live with Alexis.

Jezebel idly wiped some of the blood from his clothes, it dotting his perfect white fingers. He looked around at his surroundings, not caring that the blank, dead eyes of the priest still stared up at him with a stupefied horror. He saw a large, coveted bible, resting on a stand. Huge, and seemingly old. He remembered his mother, making him read from there. How he read, but understood not. How his mind would skip to something else. But as he had left to live with Alexis, and as he had found out about Cain, his younger stepbrother, he remembered one name from the bible. Well, two. A Pair.

Cain and Abel.

His hands opened the bible, which was heavy. Each page, thin and delicate. Turning page after page with his delicate fingers, he could smell the familiar scent of old books. It had been a long time since he had read anything other then medical books, and this bible, seemed almost ridiculously fabricated. His eyes skimmed over each page. But he knew what he wanted to see. Cain's name. And as he looked over the book, standing behind the stand where it rested, he could not notice the foul stench of the priest's flesh.

He found it. Genesis. Cain. His stepbrother's namesake. He almost laughed, but allowed himself to read. His father had named his stepbrother by this name… but Cain had a brother. Oh yes. He did. Cain's brother Jezebel. Cain's brother Abel. Abel whom received God's love, who was killed from jealousy from a jealous brother, who sinned, and was punished… The book was a lie. Had Jezebel received Alexis's love? He was Cain's brother and therefore did he have the right to continue the pointless metaphor? Jezebel had wounds on his back, sharp and slashing whip marks, but not as deep as Cain's. His blood did not flow as long. The book was a lie. Cain received the love. And the lying Cain killed his brother.

But Cain couldn't kill me… He knows he can't. Cain and his whipping dog, who pants and follows. 

Slowly, Jezebel's hand touched the top of the page. He couldn't stand the dirty words, twisting and lying. He couldn't force himself to read these pathetic tales of lessons to be learned, of sinners and of punishments. It was a ridiculous fairytale, taken in ignorance.

He was not Abel. Nor was he Jezebel the whore. Two of his counterparts in that worthless book, a book held in great esteem by a mocking cult. His brother had killed Abel. Jezebel had been killed by her own sins. Both dead. Shrouded in that stench of flesh and blood. It was sickening. And he wanted no relation to these disgusting people. The fool and The whore.

He clutched the top of the page delicately. And pulled down. The ripping of the paper sent a chill down his spine, sensitive to the unrefined sound. The page was torn, and pulled out by Jezebel's delicate fingers. And crumpled into a snow coloured palm. Thrown, discarded onto the floor. 

Again.

And

Again.

Each page. Slowly. Patiently. Torn, shredded… lost.

He did not have to believe these lies.

As he tore each page with a renewed sense of vengeance, and of justice, something struck him as peculiar. He felt quite mad. Quite light headed. Here he was. Tearing pages out of a book, a book that told people how to live. Tearing it with terrible fury and lust. Tearing God's voice and limbs. He didn't need a book to tell him who he was. He didn't need a God. And then he began to laugh. It was a shrill laugh at first, almost like a forced-sob, and the pitch was painfully high. He laughed with no mirth, with no feeling. He laughed only for the need to express something inside of him that he could not express. Not even triumph. He simply laughed, until he found sweet, warm, salt water, running down his face.

Grimly, as he pulled the tattered book with him, he fell to rest on his knees, next to the bible stand. The stain glass windows looked down at him with mock-sympathy. He pushed the broken book to the floor beside him, though he had ripped at the spine of it with his fingers. He reached with his finely crafted hands, a surgeon's perfect hands, and touched the tears that tumbled down his face, resting stickily on his cheeks. He did not know if he was crying for mirth, or grief. And he felt empty. And lost. He did not sob, and yet… his tears simply fell, unbidden from his eyes, and pain struck at his chest area, or where he guessed his heart was. But he was a surgeon. A doctor. He wasn't a fool. The heart was a beautiful organ. Pumping the dark red wine. And it wasn't linked to feelings at all. Those were caused by the slime of the organ trapped in one's skull.

He sat, his hair veiling his face, his eyes shadowed and gazing at his own bloodied lap. The church was getting darker now, and shadows crept along the walls and across the compassionate faces of statues, crafted with skill. But he sat, shivering from the coldness of the cage.

The doors opened. Crafting in unbidden light. Jezebel's head snapped up, like a wild animal being caught by human lights, his moist eyes flashing. The silhouette of the small figure at the door was that of a child. But Jezebel knew who it was, instantly.

"Master Jezebel…" Cassian, obviously, sounded cautious and a little nervous as he stepped into the large church. His eyes skipped to the priest's dead body, and they shut for a moment. Just a moment. "One of the maids told me you had come here and I decided to check" He cut out the slight quiver in his voice, and stood, impatient. His lips were pouted, and his arms were folded. Jezebel paused to look at him through his tear-stricken eyes. He was beautiful… but he knew that Cassian hated his body with such a passion. 

Jezebel stood, shakily, on his long and elegant legs. His hair fell back, showing his face, with red marks from the tears, like small, temporary scars. His soft white suit was splattered in dark crimson, as was his soft hair and skin. His tears no longer fell unbidden from his eyes, and his face was twisted into an almost smile. He took a shaking step down, almost stumbling, and walked past the bloodied body of the priest. He walked till he stood directly in front of Cassian, who was looking slightly more nervous then when he had arrived. The dim and darkening light from the open doors casted Cassian's face in shadow.

"Cassian…" Jezebel looked down, as was required when considering Cassian's height. "Are you one of God's children?"

Cassian looked slightly dumbfounded at the comment that had seemingly come from nowhere. "I-" Hastily he bit his lip and shook his head. He didn't know how to act. He didn't know what Jezebel thought… he never did. And it was always best not to speak. Jezebel laughed. The sound made Cassian's eyes widen, as it was shrill, and bitter, and it echoed across the walls. 

"I am…" Jezebel whispered. "I am a whore and a brother…" he laughed again, and stretched his arms downwards toward Cassian. They were still dotted with blood, and the stench of the priest's body was becoming intolerable. Cassian had to try hard to stop himself from retching. "A whore and a brother… and a doctor… how lucky I am" Jezebel's voice had now reached a deadly quiet. "And you are a lie. You are God's lie"

Cassian couldn't stop himself. "What?" He questioned.

Jezebel's elegant hand reached out, and stroked Cassian's hair with the tenderness of someone stroking a lazy cat, or comforting a child. "You are God's lie," he said again, almost gravely. "You are a man, trapped in the prison of a child's eyes. And it enrages you. You look as an innocent boy. But you are really the man trapped inside. Bitter. Angry…" He paused. Cassian said nothing, his eyes looking back into Jezebel's, but he saw that Cassian's hands were trembling slightly. "But I don't see you as that man. I have been tricked by God's lie… and see you through a strangers eyes. I see you as a child."

And Jezebel knelt, onto his knees. He pulled his arms around Cassian, and did something that felt foreign to both of them. Wrapping Cassian in a protective, almost motherly embrace. Cassian blinked, but stayed stiff in Jezebel's arms, his skin tickled by Jezebel's hair.

"I'm sorry, Cassian" Jezebel's voice seemed unusually soft. "I see you as a lie. And I know that is how I hate people to see me. The whore and the brother…" He pulled away, releasing Cassian, now at level height with Cassian as he was on his knees. Jezebel smiled, his twisted and sardonic smile, the smile he had given his victims. The almost smile of a devil. But… it seemed fake. Like a mask. His voice seemed almost weak.

"Cassian… can we pray?"

Jezebel crouched, and clasped his hands together, his eyes shut. And Cassian looked at him, trembling.

The stench of the priest's corpse was unbearable.

**------** **FIN ****------**


End file.
